


Revolution

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Historical References, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Put Sherlock on the case, Revolutionary War, Sassy Sherlock, Scotland Yard, Serial Killers, Set in Season 3, Sherlock's back, Violence, War, awkward tensions, but like before the wedding, cold cases, not between who you're thinking, serial murders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: Bloody hell, he hated cold cases.When the file is stamped and shut, Sherlock just holds his breath. When the body given to family and friends, Sherlock still doesn't let go. When the rumors and the thoughts and the discussions stop pertaining to the case, Sherlock finds himself winding his way back, holding, waiting to finish the puzzle. It was compulsive. Addicting. And if he couldn't quench his obsession with a successful case and a criminal behind bars, he turned to other means to stop the nerves and block the racing mind.But then, this is more than just a series of cases growing cold quicker than the bodies seemed to.This was a revolution. This was a war.





	1. The First Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions, comments, concerns, wanting to yell at me, hmu
> 
> victorianwatson.tumblr.com

Rain was a constant in London, and a deterrent to London's police force. No matter how many interns carry umbrellas and coffee, the scene is bound to change through little differences. It was for these miniscule miscalculations (which would lead to an abrasion to the evidence, assumption to the verdict, and a right awful mess), that Lestrade found himself calling in a consultant.

It was for those reasons, and the fact they had _no bloody idea_ what they were up against.

Lestrade dragged a hand down his face, wiping off the stray rain pellets, and shoved his phone back in his pocket. He walked back to face his crew, legs feeling heavy with exhaustion and dread. Once more under the protection of a multitude of tarps and coverings, the DI took in the scene. It was an unfortunate placement. Tape and barricades blocked off a sector of the main street, with crew in hideous bright vests at work to direct the traffic flow. _A homicide in the public view, with no public to view it._

More tape chalked out a smaller segment of the scene, and cornered in a forensic team, and the focus of their attention.

"Chris P. Tolles. 25, although tall for his age. Records showed he just got back from a trip back home to Boston. He worked in a pub across town. Nothing taken from his pockets, hell - even the cash was still in his wallet. We got the who, but not the why or the how. Most we can speculate is a hate crime, based on his color." Anderson approached him, garbed in the blue oversuit, waving a significantly small stack of papers. "That's all we got on him now, but one of our blokes is off to get more of his records. Here."

Lestrade flipped through the minor report of Anderson's scrawl. "And the bullet?"

Anderson seemed to dodge the question by shifting his feet. "Not to be found. Yet."

He didn't reply for a bit, just nodded. His fingers itched for a cigarette, a cup of tea, a cozy fire - something to chase away the damp, and calm the sleep-deprived, fried nerves. "Right then. I called in Holmes, he and Dr. Watson are on their way-"

"You did what?" Sally's voice broke through, interrupting the conversation. "One of our bigger leads, and you're going to let him ruin it?" She took the stack from his hands - something Lestrade would out rightly abhor her for, had she not replaced with a new cup of tantalizingly hot coffee.

"We need him Donovan, and whether you agree or not, we're getting him." He held the steaming cup closer to his face, savouring the smell before the contents.

"I'm just saying, we've found ties to the ...'bigger picture' and-"

"You're not letting him in on the serial cases now, are you?!" Anderson interrupted in defiance. Lestrade hushed him with a glare.

"That's confidential till confirmed. Now shut it, both of you."

"Sir, we're tired. Exhausted even. We've been running on nothing but fumes and leads for weeks, and I don't think any of us," She motioned to the entirety of the crime scene, "could handle the Freak today."

"It's not babysitting! And I said shut it!" This time, they did. Anderson showing his disagreement by crossing his arms like a child, Donovan with a pout and stern look. "Look, I know you three aren't on the best of terms since... since The Incident, but bloody move on - We have a dead man at our feet, and I will add more bodies if you don't buck up, and do your fucking job!"

The silence that followed was drastic, broken by the pattering of drops on plastic tarps.

"Right then." Lestrade continued. "We've got no bullet, no motive, and no explanation. He's our only chance."

"...No hope?" Donovan looked down at the victim, intent on searching for a missed clue. Lestrade shook his head.

"And no time. If these cases are tied together, who knows when the next-" Anderson yelped, as Lestrade poured his still-scalding coffee down the front side of the forensics suit. "What the hell was that for?"

"Aw bugger! The numb goes straight to the fingers, yeah?" Lestrade covered up his fumble sarcastically, as his fingers tightened the plastic lid back on. "Sorry mate, I'll keep the cup in check if you keep your mouth shut. "

"Confidential till confirmed, yes, we know," Sally intervened. "Anderson, lets get you a new covering. We wouldn't want to be here to 'disturb the scene' when the Freak waltz in anyway."

"He has a name, you know!" Lestrade called after them as they walked back to the tarps and tapes. He looked down, once again at the young man. He was young, dark, looked like he was sleeping. Years of the force brought years of bodies, which brought an appreciation for forensics to close the eyes of those passed. Something unnerving and too real about the empty looks. 

There was also something unnerving about wasting his precious coffee on shutting up that pratt.

"Yes, yes, I have a name, but you should really focus on the man in front of you." A bass broke through Greg's reverie, causing him to jump and spill even more, this time down his own front.

"Son of a-"Greg started "Contrary to what you may have been told, no, that is not my name." Sherlock replied, taking a pair of gloves from his pocket, intent to start the work.

"Did you just make a joke?" Lestrade fluttered, sparse in focus and shocked.

"A joke? What, did I just the miss a legend?" The short doctor came huffing into the scene, right next to the D.I.

"Oh how nice of you to join us John," Sherlock sassed, not even looking up from his inspection on the body.

"Well, you see this prick had left me with a cab fare to pay, before flying out of there with a coat as wings." Lestrade stood shock still, the sudden appearance and the contrast between cold rain and hot coffee too much for his exhausted mind. He could only watch the banter, and witness John grabbing an extra pair of blue latex from Sherlock's coat - _From Sherlock's coat_ \- and squatting down next to the body. "Sherlock, get off your bloody knees. The rain will soak through and you'll leave Ms. Hudson a right awful mess."

"Hmmm. Right you are," Holmes drawled, not listening, lost in his own world. Yet still he pulled his weight back, settling on haunches and practically glaring down the cold corpse. "Oh, and Lestrade - you might consider putting the lid back on your cup, before the two-sugars goes cold in the rain."

"Huh? Uh, yeah, right," The DI stuttered, brain catching up despite the exhaustion slowing him down and water grinding on his gears. "Right, right, anything you can tell us?"

"Oh yes, plenty-"

" _Sher_ lock," John interrupted with a patronizing tone, snapping the final blue latex glove on, and mirroring the consultant's position on the other side of the body.

"Fine then," a child bit back. "Pertaining _to the case,_ well - John?" Sherlock opened the floor, an act seemingly out of character if it were not pertaining to the army doctor.

"Bloke's young, that's for sure. An adult, yes, but looks like he still has wisdom teeth in the back of his mouth here. Have you gotten an ID yet?"

Lestrade nodded grimly. "Chris P. Tolles, 25. Here from Boston, working locally I believe. We'll get you a cop-"

"P. P what? What was his middle name?" Sherlock stood up with the lithe of a cat, excitement daunting at the mystery - as slight as it was. Lestrade swore he could almost see a tail switching underneath that coat of his, ready to pounce.

"Percy? Peter? Something with a "pu" sound. Hell if I know. We just had the pleasure of meeting. Like I said, we'll get you a copy of what we know." The DI sighed. His nerves were already short, and even the slight grating of them by the child-detective was short circuiting him. "Look, can you tell us anything or not?"

"Death definitely by bullet," John started, voice calm and distant. A Doctors balm, and just the level of professionalism Lestrade needed. "Hard to determine a time with all this rain washing the blood away, but I'm sure that's nothing new. Yet," he paused, sifting his fingers carefully, prodding through the latex layer, "There's no exit wound. Hell, I can see where the damage stops in the body, clean cut through to the stomach, but no bullet. And no signs of prior tampering. Has your forensic team seen this?" He looked up to yet another grim nod by Lestrade. "Right. So the bullet didn't leave the body, but the bullet didn't stay either. What, did he digest it as a last meal?"

"Quite unlikely," Sherlock commented. Lestrade turned to reprimand him with a hand on his coffee and another pinching his nose, stopping at the sight of a small smile shared between him and the chuckling doctor. Are they.. Is this... an inside joke? The hell? The smile fell and the moment lost as Anderson approached the scene - the sight of a new blue overwear tugged a smile at Lestrade's lips. "There's been theories - online, in forums, of blood being frozen into shape, fired into the body to give the impact of a bullet, but melts away without evidence." He explained, looking more to Lestrade than the... Other two. The DI noticed the act of guilt, and bristled with a _when the hell will they get over this_ sort of desperation.

"A blood bullet," John quipped, obviously not-intrigued.

"Of the sorts, yeah," Anderson still didn't look up.

"Why, yes! Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, dramatically with hands in the air, direct eye contact, and such a contrast to his character that even Anderson startled and stared. "Why wouldn't internet babblings on forensic technology suddenly prove successful as if this was a mundane plot for some science _fiction_ crime show? Anderson, you're bloody brilliantly completely idiotic. A blood bullet. Obviously. Oh, how could we have missed this? Oh Lestrade,"

"Sherlock," John warned.

"I'm a sham, a fool. I've disappointed you yet again - a blood bullet!"

"Sherlock," John stifled a laugh. Lestrade twitched into something resembling a smile once again. It was nice to see the detective so...human. Making jokes, making John laugh. He seemed as easy-going as any can be while investigating a murder. Lighter, somehow. Like the wieght of The Final Problem had fallen off his shoulders as he fell off the building.

"Just take my record away from me. I shan't be a consultant if I don't go to the manipulations of the internet _hooligans_ for my research." It was fun to have fun at Andersons expense. He had the deer-in-the-headlights look, not quite sure if it was a joke or not, too afraid to laugh along. It's been far too long since the team has even laughed, so a light hearted smile at another's confusion was a necessary reprieve.

"Sherlock," John warned, once again.

"A blood bullet - it was right there in front of me, and I didn't see it. Genius detective a fraud!"

"Sherlock!"John almost-yelled, loud enough to stop Sherlock's dramatic ridicule. A newspaper flashed across his mental eye, title big, bold, declaring

**_GENIUS DETECTIVE PROVED TO BE A FRAUD_ **

And the corresponding feeling of small, endless pain filling the air with tension like a knee-jerk reaction. Reflex, from years of practice. John made eye contact with Sherlock, praying the detective's keen sight won't forget to read between the lines and understand this subtext.

"Don't always believe what you read. Double check your resources till you know, not believe, not theorize. Just - keep to your porn sites, Anderson." The detective answered quietly, coolly,

Familiar.

A scoff, and a resounding, "I do not!" As Anderson took offense, and the breath that was strung tight in the tension in the air was released.

Together, they crossed the line into foreign territory, but - _thankfully_ \- crossed back.

"Besides, even if it was this mythical blood bullet, we'd see an alteration in the blood. Even if it was from the victim, there'd be a difference in the oxygenation, the cell count, the consistency of the blood." Sherlock continued.

"Anderson, take a sample and sent it to Barts. Let Molly have a look." Holmes turned to stare bewildered at Lestrade's command, almost comedic in the DI's mistrust. "It's our only hope, Holmes. No bullet, no sign of exit. And Doctor Watson here is right. It's not as if this poor man could have digested it."

"Thank you Lestrade," John stood, rolling off the gloves before handing them to Anderson. "I'm sorry we can't give much more input as of now."

He spoke directly to Lestrade, "If you wouldn't mind sending us a copy of the case? Maybe there'll be a tie or a detail we can connect for you on the motive-side of this case."

 _Ah yes, John, always the mediator tying up loose ends_. Sherlock thought

"Anderson, I'm sure I can trust the forensics not to give in to the easy theory or give up the investigation? And I'd get some more details about this wound – it is a little off for a bullet hole," Anderson nodded quietly. "Good. Then, if you don't mind, I would love to get out of this awful rain. Sherlock?" John called.

 

Anderson lied. The case was closed a mere two weeks later due to an inability to perceive "cause of death".


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson lied. The case was closed a mere two weeks later due to an inability to perceive "cause of death".  
> Bloody hell, he hated cold cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update - ahead of schedule? Whaaaaaaat
> 
> Tell me to kick my butt into gear on victorianwatson.tumblr.com

 

The rain continued. It was a constant in London, so much so it more or less dwindled into the atmosphere and ambience, and you never checked the forecast and always brought an umbrella.

Which is probably why John always insisted on keeping that window shut. But Sherlock's fingers twitched, and his robe bristled with energy along with his pace. It just... It was stuffy. Condensed. He needed to breathe, he needed to relax, and if he couldn't open to window to blow out some smoke, then he might as well open the window to release some steam.

The patter of raindrops drummed against the glass and thrummed echoes into his head. It was ringing with too much input, tension building into a crescendo only broken by the soft _psshh_ of the window seal cracking and the creak of the window being pulled up. Cool with humidity and the last stretches of winter, the rush of air into the room was a breath of relief. The raindrops sounded less like they were banging to get in, and more of a carefree _plip_ of droplets onto the wooden sill. The open window brought in the soft gray ambience of a gloomy day broken by the fire in the hearth. It was a picture-perfect aesthetic, almost set like a stage.

 _But that was just it._ Sherlock felt it to be set like a stage, awaiting the curtain reveal, awaiting the plot, the characters, anything. It was a breath sucked in tight and waiting to be held.

Waiting.

Bloody hell, he hated cold cases.

When the file is stamped and shut, Sherlock just holds his breath. When the body given to family and friends, Sherlock still doesn't let go. When the rumors and the thoughts and the discussions stop pertaining to the case, Sherlock finds himself winding his way back, holding, waiting to finish the puzzle. It was compulsive. Addicting. And if he couldn't quench his obsession with a successful case and a criminal behind bars, he turned to other means to stop the nerves and block the racing mind.

Which is why Mother-Hen John had made sure to forbid any local (or even outside walking distance) corner shops from selling Sherlock anything stronger than a child's prescription for headaches. And so his fingers twitched, his mouth mumbled, and his robe bristled with energy along with his pace.

It was becoming this sort of dance. Turn-2-3, Step-2-3, 1-2-3, Turn-2-3. There was no music but the cacophony in his mind, which he tried to fix - oh, did he try - but everytime the bow found its way into his hands it was quickly dropped as Sherlock turned around to pace the opposite direction. Turn-2-3, Step-2-3, 1-2-Pick-Up-2-3, No-2-3, No-no-nonononono.

With a rather loud sigh he stopped, mind still racing to dance its way to a conclusion, body staying stock still, eyes shut to block any more input. Breath out. Breath in - is that? That smell...?

His eyes opened to a rather fond sight. John found his way to his armchair, a book balanced against his leg, sipping from his mug. But oh, what a fond sight - his own classic mug, steaming, brimming with tea, steeping in a sure-cause for relief. The bow was set down, the mug picked up. With a sip, the cacophony dwindled, and Sherlock focused. He focused on the bitterness of the tea, the heat resting into his stomach. He focused on finding his own chair with his eyes still tightly screwed shut, the feel of the cushion as he sat down and just - Relax.

 _Easier said than done_.

"Mrs. Hudson let me in, thought you weren't home when you didn't answer the door." Johns voice lilted through the gray-and-fire ambience of the room, his eyes never leaving the book. "Thought I'd stop by after work, make sure you're alright – Mary would have joined, but her sister called. Something about the bridesmaid dresses?"

Sherlock took a quick look, opening his eyes. _When did John get here?_ He took in the rumpled appearance of John's sweater, the direct appearance that only the persistent on-and-off of a jacket could give. He saw the crease lines in John's pants that could only come from a day of wear. He watched the clock on the shelf tick away the time. _Oh_.

"Please tell me you didn't just walk around all day working up the courage to play your violin."

No answer.

"Sherlock...," John looked up, reading him easier than the book in his lap -of which, he promptly shut and set on the coffee table in front of him, next to his mug. He leaned down with his elbows on knees, "Do you know what time it is?"

"Mother-Hen John," Sherlock muttered behind his mug, stopping to take a sip as his eyes darted to the clock on the mantle.

"Oi, you, eyes over here."

"28 seconds after 7:13," Sherlock replied through the steam rising out of his mug, refusing to put it down so he had _something_ to hide behind and from John's unforgiving stare.

"Yeah, yeah, you smart arse," John relaxed and straightened his back. "But were you aware of that before, or did the late hour suddenly hit you like a train?"

No answer.

"Alright, that's it." John stood up, Sherlock frowning as he noticed John's wince at the twitch in his shoulder. "I'm making pasta for dinner, and _you're_ going to eat all of it."

"No takeout?"

"No takeout. Don't pretend you don't like the fettucine - and, I'll make extra as to compensate for your lazy ignorance for basic human necessity." The frown lessened.

* * *

 

For the longest time, the only sounds came cutlery against the plates and the fire crackling in the hearth. It was long past its time, dwindling down to mere embers with an occasional pop! As a dying breath. Just another neglect left alone, passed on as time wore on. John turned his eye to the man across from him, watching Sherlock twirl the noodles around his fork, then the pasta around his plate. He was obviously lost in thought, going through the motions, locked up in his brain far too much for his own good.

"Hungry, Sherlock?"

"Mmm? Yes, yes," Sherlock muttered, not looking up, eyes still out of focus.

John smiled. "Are you awake, Sherlock?"

"Mmph." A grunt of agreement.

"Hows the pasta?"

"Yeahuh."

"Sherlock, I'm dying."

"That's nice."

"This man came into the office today - peculiar case, thought you had to see it -" He cut off. "But I could ramble on about the fact he had three heads and a cat's tail and you wouldn’t notice, right?"

"Yes, ye- wait, what?" Sherlock turned to look at John.

"Ah, there you are. Good morning Sherlock."

"I wasn't asleep and it's still before 8 so I don't underst-"

"Joking, Sherlock, I was joking."

"Mmm," Sherlock made a noise to fill the silence. His brows furrowed with a "Do you do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Make jokes? Make pasta? Is this normal, or is new after-" He stopped, not sure where he was heading, and not sure if he wanted to go down that path in the first place or not.

John huffed a quick laugh. "Yes, actually. It's human you know – to make food. Try it sometime."

"I meant,-"

"I know what you meant." The mood turned somber, the ambience darkening with undertones of the past. "I used to always make you dinner, especially after that time you set off the alarms at that ungodly hour – Mrs. Hudson right had a heart attack at that."

"It was an experiment."

"Sure it was," The sarcasm was heavy, but a splash of comic-relief color. "I make Mary dinner too. With such odd working hours it spends more time sitting in the fridge than on the table, but what's new, yeah?" A smile was shared, soft and light, but shared all the same. "Now, the jokes – well, I guess those have always been there as well. They did stop for a year," John made unwavering eye contact with Sherlock, trying to pass the message on, trying to convey things words just can't say, "but they came back. A little rough, trying to get back in the spirit of things, but I'm working on it."

Sherlock broke the eye contact to study the untouched meal before him. "Yeah, well keep working on it. I doubt Mary approves of your god-awful sense of humor." The undertone lifted, and the easy banter was a welcome relief.

"Ah, she's warming up to it."

* * *

_Taking care of Sherl. Be home as soon as I can, don't wait up. -JW_

_I'll wait. Bring home some of that dinner? - MM_

John smiled down at his phone, settling blindly into the armchair, replaced into it's original spot. However Mary guessed about the impromptu dining on Baker Street, he'll never know. _She knows me better than I know myself._ He set the phone aside with a sigh, and just sat there, breathing in the familiarity of the flat. The eternal mess still adorned every flat surface, books were in stacks and not on shelves, the skull still sat watching over everything. It was as if the flat was frozen in time, the dust stilled in the air. The only movement came from a swish of a bathrobe, the only sound a _flump_ as the taller man sunk onto the couch.

Curious, John checked his watch. Late. Mary's waiting. Just as the skull on the mantel, John copied – sit there, and watch.

Sherlock, not eating.

Violin, out but seemingly untouched.

Window, open.

Lights, off.

Sherlock, dressed in The Blue Robe.

Laptop, open and dead.

Sherlock, without sleep and pacing.

The Wall, empty without strings or pictures.

But Sherlock, anxiously engaged in something.

Conclusion: Sherlock's still on a case.

"So who was the poor victim?" John asked, hoping to get insight on why Sherlock took a case, but more importantly, why he took a case without his blogger.

"What?" Sherlock muttered from his face pushed into the cushion on the couch he laid on top of.

"The case you're on – anything interested?"

"There is no case," a muffled reply.

"I know you Sherlock, and I know when you're on a case." This caught his attention, as Sherlock rolled over to his back with another _flump_. "Is it with Lestrade?" "There is no case," he repeated. John heard the angry undertone, a different miff than The-Yard's-Finest-are-nothing-but-a-bunch-of-dogs.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, experience told him not to expect an answer.

"...cold," came a whisper as Sherlock turned his back to John, facing the back of the couch and the wall. John took a moment, knowing it wasn't the literal heat (or lack thereof) Sherlock meant.

"The cold case, Sherlock? The missing bullet? God, Sherlock, that was weeks ago!"

"It doesn't add up."

"Of course it doesn’t, that's why they shut it down! But that's what has you all tied in knots? A hate crime gone cold? I wouldn't think it registered more than a 6 on your scale!"

"Things change, John. The scale-"

"Well, yes I know things bloody change but apparently _you_ don't."

Sherlock sighed. In a voice quiet and quite out of the norm, "Sometimes I think things would be better if-"

"If nothing. You're back Sherlock. We've done the whole forgive-not-forget part. There's nothing more to do than to move on. Which is exactly what you need to do with this cold case-"

"It doesn't. Add up."

"Yeah well, neither does you starving and worrying yourself about it," John got up with a newfound energy, grabbing his coat and putting the book he had in his lap back on a shelf. "but fine. Fine. Go grab a file as a bedtime story, but more importantly get some sleep Sherl."

With a door slam rattling throughout the flat, John left, and Sherlock continued his rhythmic pace.

Turn-2-3. Step-2-3. Turn-2-3. Step-2-3.

He paced and paced, feet hitting the ground in the same spot every time, breath evening out between the waltz.

Turn-2-3. Step-2-3. He understood "wearing a hole through the floor".

Turn-2-3. Step-2-3. John was right. John was always right. He needed to move on, drop the file and let it go. John could move on. John moved on from him quite easily over the past two years. John moved on from this case. But he just couldn't see the connection, and he couldn't see how to "move on" from such a case. Couldn't see the way John does and simply "move on".

"Daytime murder. Public street. No witness, no weapon," Sherlock muttered to himself. Step-2-3. Turn-2-3. "Nothing to show for it, nothing to report, nothing to write about-" Step-2- _stop_.

"But that's not quite true," Sherlock said, rounding back to the laptop on the table, where John had sat weeks ago, keys clattering as he updated his now-up-and-running blog.

_"Hey Sherlock, there's an email here from a station asking for an interview about the murder Tuesday?" John asked, nonchalant and not looking up from the screen._

_"Not interested," the detective muttered from the couch, steepling his fingers under his chin and stretching out propping his feet on the opposite end._

_Minutes later, "Where did you say he was from again?"_

_"Hmm?" Sherlock said, still with disinterest._

_"Tuesday. Chris Tolles. You said he was from America, yeah?"_

_"Why?"_

_"Blog update. Thought I'd keep our readers entertained," John clacked away at the keys._

_"People still read that blasted thing?" Caused a huff of air from John's nose, a slight laugh. Silence followed and stretched into a comfortable domesticity._

_"Massachusetts," was muttered from the couch minutes later._

John's blog – a new perspective. That's all he needed. He needed to see how John could just type up the story and let it leave his mind, he needed to see how to kick it out and not let it fester and take his mind and time away from him.

So he logged on, he clicked the bookmarked page, and he didn't get past the header till he stopped the cursor in it's pixelated track. They'd been hacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how I felt about this chapter - it being mostly a filler chapter and all. So I used it as an opportunity to 1. Work on characterization and 2. Define the relationships between characters post trf.  
> Because it's such a setting-chapter, I might update it again later, but will notify y'all when I do so you can reread it if you want to get a new understanding of what I'm trying to portray
> 
>  
> 
> also SirArthurHeadcanonDoyle you give me life thank you!
> 
> victorianwatson.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,  
> I have a couple chapters written out already, but considering this monster-baby being the only thing I've been working on for a past couple months, I figured I'd post it now and continue working on it. The emails I get from comments and kudos remind to get crackin' on the next chapter - I'd appreciate any help you're willing to give to remind me.
> 
> victorianwatson.tumblr.com


End file.
